


Nothing left to love

by HomuraAkemi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Because I crave the sap, Fluff, M/M, Post-Fall, Post-TWOTL, So I wrote some sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 22:16:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6060030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomuraAkemi/pseuds/HomuraAkemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal remembers something his aunt has said to him when he was but a young man. He thinks that maybe, it isn't true, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing left to love

_‘What is left in you to love?’_

The words still ring in his ears, clearly, as the man sits by the side of the bed, one leg crossed over the other despite the strain it puts on his injury. It doesn’t show on his face, even though there’s no one he’d have to hide it from. Will’s sound asleep – because of genuine exhaustion, now, instead of heavy pain killers. Soon, he wouldn’t have to rely on them anymore at all; he’s slowly coming back together. They both are.

Usually, his thoughts are very controlled; he cannot tell how this stray memory’s now invaded his mind. So many years have passed and Hannibal cannot recall the last time he’s thought of this. Back then, when his aunt’s uttered them, the words have stung. Hannibal’s cared about the woman; even if, maybe, he’s cared about other things more. She’s tried hindering him from being what he is – and it isn’t as though the man can’t understand that at all. However, her response to his admission’s been an unpleasant surprise.

He’s thought perhaps she’s right, perhaps there’s nothing human within him left. And it hasn’t been painful anymore, believing so. He is what he is; no defintion can entirely make sense of him. The man’s been just content with this, not fitting into their descriptions. In the end, it’s easier to simply not define him at all, or depict him as a monster.

And love is a completely human emotion, something a monster shouldn’t be able to feel nor have returned to it.

But this is what it is, isn’t it? And it doesn’t matter if anyone else would agree or not. It would be rather pointless to try and deny it. Hannibal’s an exceptional liar; though he does prefer telling the truth in one way or another. He doesn’t lie to himself. If he can so easily accept his darker urges, then it should be no different, accepting this.

Will shifts beneath the cover, drawing his attention, face pushing further into the pillow. A hiss escapes from between clenched teeth when he accidently stretches the skin of his cheek, and Hannibal hears a quiet, huffed out sigh when the other realizes he’s woken. He knows, though, that Will would be too stubborn to agree to trying more pain killers again, to make sure he can sleep through the night. He doesn’t necessarily enjoy being drugged.

Understandable, certainly, especially considering their shared past.

As though Will knows he’s there he turns his head up, glancing at him with sleep-narrowed eyes, surely barely seeing him with how dark it still is. Though, the other man doesn’t look surprised, finding that he’s not alone. Apparently he’s expected it, either because he’s truly aware of it happening before or because at this point, he simply puts nothing past Hannibal anymore. Finding him sitting next to his bed is nearly normal compared to all the other surprises they’ve already had for each other.

“Is this a new game?”

His voice is quiet, words slightly slurred and Will blinks slowly, so very obviously tired, but he stubbornly keeps his eyes on him. Hannibal arches a questioning brow. A new game? No, he isn’t playing, not in this. Not that he’s tired of it; far from it. His own amusement is often a factor, a motif, that covibrates with other reasons for his actions. Will might know this better than anyone else.

The other takes his silence as a prompt to clarify.

“Well, you either want me to react a certain way, seeing you sit by my bedside night after night, or it pleases you, or—“

_Or you are here for a different reason, one you apparently won’t act upon. Why?_

So Will knows. How often has he noticed the man’s presence, in those past few weeks? Has he lain awake not knowing what to do, or has he been content to just go back to sleep, not bringing attention to it all? If he’s honest the older hasn’t really thought about why he’s in the other’s bedroom. It’s not to do Will any harm. Perhaps it calms him. Knowing that the other male is asleep, no nightmares or pain keeping him awake. Knowing he’s still there. Yes, yes it does calm him.

Will doesn’t look bothered, not annoyed or disturbed that he’s been watched in his sleep, more or less. Maybe because it isn’t the worst thing Hannibal could do. Maybe he genuinely doesn’t mind; the man’s not sure. It seems as though he’s not sure about a few things, lately. Which is new. And not entirely pleasant. Self-assurance keeps one aloof and invincible. Hannibal doesn’t feel invincible when Will’s involved.

Both say nothing for a long moment.

Perhaps he should take his leave. It’s late, and they should both try to find more rest. They need it to heal, and it wouldn’t do for them to be grumpy and exhausted the next day due to a lack of sleep. He’ll come back the next night, or he won’t. Whether or not they’ll talk about this is something he won’t decide right now. Hannibal doesn’t make a move just yet to return to his own room, however.

The sound of skin sliding across fabric reached his ears, fumbling, and a second later Will’s hand pushes his way out from under the blanket, causing him to tilt his head to the side only subtly. An invitation. A silent suggestion for him to come closer. Before he knows it he stands, taking one, two steps forward. Will’s looking at him expectantly. Slowly he sits on the edge of the mattress, feeling the other male’s fingers curl into his shirt, giving a small tug.

His heart beats just a tad faster in his chest and Hannibal frowns, momentarily. What a curious thing. This prompting’s somehow more difficult to handle than violence.

He thinks maybe, now, he can’t really deny the other anything anymore. Doesn’t want to.

The man shifts, moving beneath the covers, back leaning against the headboard, eyes on the younger man. Will sighs, both satisfied and not yet completely so, tightening his grip in the fabric. There’s little hesitance in him when he sits up, tentatively because of their wounds but nevertheless sure of himself, as he slips closer. He puts no pressure on the bullet wound in Hannibal’s gut, is careful about this, straddling his thighs and deliberately leaning in to tuck his head beneath the older’s chin, his uninjured cheek resting on Hannibal’s collar bone. The older male’s breath stutters to a stop, eyes falling shut, fingers uselessly just hovering over Will’s back but not daring to move any further. Will doesn’t pull away.

Briefly, Hannibal’s wondering what course of action would be the best, come morning, should they both stay like this now. He could save them the awkwardness of waking up similar to this, lying close, perhaps even tangled. The other could always blame his tiredness for his actions, and Hannibal would take the wordless rejection with as much dignity as he could muster. It might be better like that.

“Sleep.”

Will can hear him thinking. He knows when he drifts away, lost in thoughts. And he knows how to pull him back.

Conjoined.

“I shall,” the older man responds, softly, settling deeper into the mattress. Hand splayed out across the other’s back. Trying not to clutch. Hannibal tips his head back and looks at the ceiling when Will nuzzles closer, a sleepy, fuzzy sound leaving him. One way or another, this will be the end of him.


End file.
